Somebody
by CantansAvis
Summary: "Every one of us used to be somebody before we were chosen." Who the Guardians used to be. (Be sure to read the author's note at the beginning!)
1. Wonder

**A/N**: Okay, I know that most of the Guardians already have a back story from the books. But this fic is based solely on Tooth's quote (which perked my curiosity: "Every one of us used to be somebody before we were chosen."), the movie, and my brain. Read if you want.

Side note: North will be some weird mixture of my brain and all the Santa Claus origin stories I've heard.

* * *

Every child, anyone who has been a child, has wondered about the man in the red suit. The man with the long white beard, belly that shakes like jelly when he laughed, and a strange hankering for cookies. He's St. Nicholas, Father Christmas, Santa Claus!

But before he was Santa Claus, North was just Nick, the village carpenter. Though large in stature and a bit clumsy, Nick was quite clever with his hands. He coaxed gentle creatures from blocks of wood. Small ships and little soldiers dotted his work table, ready for battle. Astounding towers adorned the edges, turning the small room into a small world.

Each year, in the heart of darkness, hopelessness, and boredom, otherwise known as the middle of winter, Nick personally gave each deserving child in the community one or two toys, delicately wrapped in plain paper. Those he deemed naughty would pout, but reminding them of their actions (and perhaps inciting them with the possibility of a later gift) always set them right. Well, almost always. Occasionally, to make his point, he had to hand them a lump of coal. It was a gift in its own way, being quite useful as fuel. But not very fun as a toy, which was a child's focus.

Nick loved the way each child's eyes lit up, their hope for life renewed as blizzards raged outside their rickety abodes. He loved their wonder as they held the wooden creations, their hands exploring what had been just a chunk of wood. That was his favorite part. The children's wonder. Their eyes lighting up with each new thing, whether it be a new year, a new flower, a new child, a new toy. They always wondered, never closing their minds.

He wondered too. He wondered if he could light up the eyes of children around the world with his gifts. He wondered about love. He wondered about different kinds of cookies. Sometimes, outside, he wondered about the Man in the Moon.

Nick had been able to expand his gift-giving to a few communities outside of his own, but he never dwelled too long on the idea of expanding even farther. He wasn't magic or superhuman.

Nick had also found love. He had lost love. And then he found it again. The pair never thought about having children of their own, loving the children of their village far too much.

And the children loved him, baking Nick all sorts of cookies to the point of him needing a new belt, pants, shirt... well, everything really.

One evening, many years after his love had gone and the dexterousness of hands replaced with a slight shaking, when Nick sat outside, his white beard glimmering like snow in the moonlight, a voice whispered to him. It whispered of joy, of hope, of wonder. It whispered of love and children. It whispered of a dark force that threatened to snuff out everything. It whispered of a chance to stop it.

That evening, Nick the village carpenter died, the loss echoing across miles of land, across generations, across the lives of hundred of children.

Next year however, the presents, the trees, the lights all appeared. As if nothing had happened. The children would continue to wonder as the scent of cookies and the smoke of a pipe lingered in the air, the echo of a familiar, jolly laugh ringing in their ears.

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**A/N: **(I don't usually put this many author's notes.) Well, hope you liked it. I did, for the most part. Updating will be iffy.


	2. Memory

**Warning (and kind of spoiler for the chapter)**: Implied suicide (and on a less serious note, updating will still be iffy)

Each child wakes in wonder when they find that their fallen tooth magically transformed overnight. Each one would hold the silvery quarter, a twinkle only children can have sparkling in their ever-widening eyes. Each one would sit in their unmade bed, trying to comprehend the being that is the Tooth Fairy.

Tooth wasn't always a strange hummingbird-human hybrid. Once, she was just a human. No feathers. No wings. (But oh, how she dreamed she could fly.)

Tooth was once just a little girl in a little village in a little, unknown country. Her name was Tatiana. She usually had a kind of far-off, glazed look in her violet eyes. If anyone asked what she was doing, little Tatiana would just reply, "Rememberin'."

For Tatiana, remembering was everything. It gave one the giggles when sad; it gave one hope when all seemed hopeless. Remembering was especially important when her parents died. They had gone out one day, her father hunting, her mother searching for various herbs and roots. They never returned. But remembering kept Tatiana's hope and mood up.

Tatiana was good at helping people remember. When loved ones were lost, whether it be of famine, disease, simple old age, Tatiana was there to help them remember. Remember the laughter, the love, the warmth. When things seemed bad, Tatiana was there to remind them of worse for reference, of better for hope.

Helping the children was the best. The wide range and passion of their emotions was astounding. How one could be crying and then giggling within moments (and vice versa). Tatiana, strangely, found comforting children about losing teeth to be the most fun.

She could go on for hours about one tooth. How much fun one had in losing it. The lessons learned. The days gone by. The stories that lit up each child's eyes.

But one day, the stories, the memories, weren't enough. The children had grown and flew away, off to see the world, off to create new memories. Tatiana couldn't leave. She was tied to the village, caught in a web of memories. If only she could lock them away for later. But she couldn't. She was tied to the memories and the memories to her.

One night, the moon shining bright and full, Tatiana stood at the edge of her village, the edge of a cliff. She looked at the moon wondering what memories its pale face held.

And the moon told her. He weaved unimaginable tales, untold histories. And he whispered that she could fly like the hummingbirds in spring, if she chose to.

And with a single step, she did.


	3. Hope

Old Man Winter (or is it a young teenage boy?) heads to bed as the Spirit of Spring rears his fuzzy, fluffy head around. He seems to just be a warm breeze, the scent of newly bloomed flower. But a closer look will reveal snippets: a pink nose, a fluffy tail. One Sunday each year, small treats and colorful eggs follow this spirit. Children, with curiosity in their eyes and glee in their hearts, eagerly search for these things, dreams of the Easter Bunny dancing in their heads.

Aster, contrary to belief, wasn't originally some sort of rabbit. And contrary to one frosty hellion, he wasn't some sort of kangaroo either. Aster, once upon a time, had been a young man, a young soldier.

And he wasn't half-bad as a fighter. He was skilled in battle (he always tended to favor a pair of boomerangs than a sword), but prone to a fiery temper. It was like a volcano: not always active, but when it was, it _exploded_, awesome, and completely and utterly terrifying.

Fortunately for everybody, very few things set off Aster. He didn't even blink when the men in his troop mocked his accent (for it proved to be an advantage when in a town and meeting a group of ladies), his slightly buck teeth, or his early-greying hair. But when it came to his younger brother...

Aster's brother, Damian, had been born... differently. His face was round, like a full moon, and the stars glittered brightly in his deep blue eyes. Damian was intelligent, but he couldn't always quite articulate what he wanted or needed. Most people gave him a passing glance and the label, "retard". Aster, on the other hand, understood and adored him. He was his brother's friend and protector. Anyone who dared call Damian a "retard" in his presence would wish they were in the thick of a battle, or lying in a trench, bleeding to death.

Damian, and all other children, were special to Aster. They were so naive, so innocent, so full of vitality. He and his comrades, and even the enemy, were young men sapped of life. They were marionettes, pushed, pulled, and commanded by chattering old men. Old men who sang of the glories of war, of killing the enemy, of murder.

Children were different. They clung onto every dream and hope they believed in. They were ignorant, yet knowing. They knew that if they clung, they would live. They knew that these little hopes and dreams would give them purpose, drive them forward, give them life. Aster and his men lived, but without any hope, any dream, any purpose. They were the living dead.

Aster embraced the hopes that he himself could no longer dream of. Empty himself, he decided to keep the children full of their dreams and peace. When winter melted into spring, wherever they were, Aster would hide treats, food that was rare during times of war, like apples, eggs, or chunks of chocolate, wrapped in colorful paper. He loved the way their eyes lit up at the prizes; each twinkle in a child's eyes reminded him of Damian, of home.

As the war dragged on, the legend of a kindred spring spirit spread throughout the lands. Each year the children waited, hopefully, in anticipation for the warmer season. With the small treats, this spirit gave them hope. Hope that the war would end. Hope that their fathers, uncles, and older cousins and brothers were still alive. Hope that someone was looking out for them and everything would turn out alright.

One year however, the spirit of hope was a bit late. He was usually quite punctual, hiding treats on almost the same day each year. The day he had almost forgotten seemed quite insignificant; nothing major had happened. There were no huge battles or village raids. It had been strangely quiet.

Or perhaps the moaning of the dying was just something they had all gotten used to. On the day that the spring spirit missed, a young man was laying on a cot, in some infirmary, crying out to his mother. He was covered in sweat, yet shivered with chills. Death had marked him. And this young man was just one of many.

A sackful of treats was stowed underneath his cot, along with a few letters: one for his mother, one for his brother, and one for his replacement as the spring spirit. The young man looked out of a small hole in the wall. He eagerly breathed in the fresh, grassy air, free of the stench of death and despair that hung about the infirmary. His lungs burned with the sensation of living.

A moonbeam cut into the thick darkness. Amongst the perpetual groans of the dying, a voice filled with hope cut into the despair.

E. Aster Bunnymund died by dawn, a gentle smile playing on his face.

And the spring spirit arrived not two days after, with treats for every village, and a few extras, as if to apologize for his tardiness.

A young boy and his mother each received a letter that day. The boy, perhaps too young and naive (or hopeful) to understand just what happened to his brother, stars twinkling in his moon-shaped face, also happily received a whole basketful of goodies from the spring spirit. His mother wept silently.

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**A/N:** I know it's been a while...like a month... But hey, almost outta school and due to a (stupid) injury, I can't really do anything this summer. So... yay for updates! (But boo for my vacation...)


	4. Dreams

Every child fights a battle each night. They each refuse to go to sleep. They struggle against their tired parents, flail their limbs, whine and moan, but to no avail. As they lay in their beds (after being tightly tucked in for third time), plotting on ways to stay up, thin trails of golden sand snake into their rooms, promptly knocking them out and sending them to dreamland. They sigh happily, playing in their dreams and thanking whoever gave them more time to play. Parents gaze at their sleeping devil-angels, also thanking (but not believing in) the Sandman.

Long ago, Sandy wasn't golden or made of sand. He had still been short, and his hair had still been ruffled up. But he once had been human.

It was the dawn of civilization. Humanity was barely a blip on the scale of the world. A certain Man in the Moon looked down with interest. They slept in crude, mud-brick homes, barely protected from the harsh desert wind. Their faces were blank, their minds apparently devoid of any thought. As the Man in the Moon turned to head to bed, he saw them awake somewhat confused, somewhat drearily.

A little boy in the village sat at the threshold of his little home, drawing in the dirt. His hair was disheveled and bleached from hours in the sun. But today, and for many days, he would have little to do. The crops were already planted and he was not yet considered old enough (or perhaps his reputation as a klutz preceded him) to help much in their care until the harvest.

This boy often had a sort of glazed look in his eyes. No one could quite pinpoint what it was. He seemed happy and healthy enough, but he just seemed to be in a sort of daze. No one quite knew what it was like to dream.

The boy did though. He had all sorts of fantastical ideas swirling in his mind, from an improved community to daring adventures to simply playing with friends or creatures of far away, like unicorns or elephants. And he told the others about them, as stories.

He loved the way they seemed to light up like stars. They laughed, they cried, they_ lived._ So as the decades passed, so did the boy's stories. They seemed to instill a sort of fire into people. A fire all deemed as the cause of the boy's hazy look; he was so intoxicated by the smoke of hope and dreams.

The boy grew into a man, albeit still short and with his bleached, messy hair. He helped more in the growing of plants and the harvest. His friends, however, would sometimes have to bring him back down to earth as he would stop mid-plow and simply stare into the sky, pondering.

At night, the Man in the Moon would stare back. He found this young man to be intriguing. He stuck out from the others. He had more vitality and a sense of humanity and purpose than the rest of his whole community, no,_ all_ the communities of the world, combined. He was the fire, the torch, of humanity.

The Man in the Moon watched as the sand-colored hair faded to white and the smooth skin sag and crinkle where he laughed and where he cried. He watched, appalled, the fire flicker in the dry desert wind.

One night, he called out to the fire. He told him of the flicker, how he needs to keep on burning, on telling the stories, of inspiring humanity. He whispered of a way to keep the flame eternal. The flame, his brown eyes flecked with gold and hazy with age and thought, pondered as he usually did. But before the stars burned out, he gave his reply and went to sleep.

Nuriel did not wake up.

But that night, the rest of humanity did. They dreamed as they never had before. They would wake up, refreshed, hopeful, impassioned. They awoke from their dreary haze of subsistence and bounded forward into true living.

The people of Nuriel's village wept with joy as they_ knew_ that Nuriel, their precious flame, still somehow lived. He lived within them and would stay with them, a flame giving warmth on those cold desert nights.


	5. Believe

So that's how the Guardians came to be.

They each were different in their ways, in their habits, in their lifestyles.

But they each found humanity to be special. And after they died, they lived again, exuding their humanity.

North has wonder.

Tooth has memory.

Aster has hope.

Sandman has dreams.

Each is essential to humanity. To life.

And in a world where we just keep driving forward,

A Guardian of Fun,

Jack Frost,

is also essential.

The Guardians not only guard the children.

They guard the rest of us too.

* * *

The Man in the Moon thought we were worth guarding,

"So when the Moon tells you something... believe it."

- Fin -


End file.
